Breaking Point
by Mia-Teresa-Davenport
Summary: "Because sometimes we all reach our breaking points, some faster than others. Some end up fine, some end up damaged beyond repair, and some shatter completely." /Or/ if you put enough pressure on something, it snaps. [OOC AND AU]
1. Chapter 1

Breaking Point.

Summary: "Because sometimes we all reach our breaking points, some faster than others. Some end up fine, some end up damaged beyond repair, and some shatter completely." /Or/ if you put enough pressure on something, it snaps. [OOC AND AU]

**Mia-Teresa-Davenport: Hi there, everyone! Mia-Teresa-Davenport here! I'm back with a new Mentally!Insane story, but this time it's not with my Subject Mia series, like the rest of them have been in the past. It's not about Mia breaking down, or Chia, or anything like that, but it's about Adam Charles Davenport. I know it might come as a shock and stuff, considering the fact that Adam is goofy and huggable and funny and kind of stupid and slow and other stuff like that, things that define Adam in the TV show. But, as some of you know, the Mentally!Insane characters are anything ****_but_**** their TV counterparts. Trust me when I say this. This is also kind of AU, but you know, whatever. I hope you guys enjoy this Oneshot, and you may or may not need tissues at the end. This is pure angst. You might cry, you might not. Just grab some tissues in case you need them.**

**Also, THIS STORY IS IN NO WAY FLUFFY, OR CONTAINS ANY ROMANTIC BRADAM. IF THAT IS WHAT YOU WERE THINKING, HIT THE BACK BUTTON NOW. THIS STORY DOES NOT CONTAIN ROMANTIC BRADAM. THIS STORY IS BRADAM HURT/COMFORT (Minus the "Comfort", ****_big time,_****) AND PURE ANGST. AND BEFORE ANY OF YOU GUYS FLIP OUT, I AM ****_NOT_**** COPYING "BY REASONS OF INSANITY" BY DAPHROSE IN ANY WAY.**

**Also, I apologize in advance if I got anything wrong about Sanitariums/Mental Asylums.**

**I meant to post this yesterday because I finished it yesterday and stuff, but something is wrong with my account, so I had to put this up on my computer and stuff like that, but I digress.**

**Anyway, who wants to do the disclaimer? How about you, Adam?**

**Adam: "Sure thing. In case you people haven't noticed, Mia-Teresa-Davenport doesn't own anything from Lab Rats that you recognize. Just this story, and the Mentally!Insane series. Try to enjoy this Oneshot, and grab the tissues in case you think you might need some. This story deals with serious stuff. I'm not joking, and neither is Mia-Teresa-Davenport. Okay, I'm glad that is cleared up. Anyway, onto the story. (Try to) enjoy this Oneshot."**

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><p>He doesn't know why she's here, so to break the silence that had seemed to grow like fire encasing wood around them; the silence growing progressively hotter, making it extremely uncomfortable, and the smoke of the silence growing thicker, each second ticking away and burning the both of them- <em>her<em> most of all- he asks five simple words in such a cold, flat, voice that scares _him_, and _he's_ the crazy one in this twisted story, not her.

_He's_ the broken one, not her.

Not her.

He's the broken one.

Not her, not her.

"Why are you here, Bree?" He asks, his voice hard, cold, flat, icy, dead, scarred, confused, and broken. It takes him a moment to registered that that is _his_ voice, all of those painful emotions rolled up into one single sentence, one single question that is directed towards her. He internally swallows, but his eyes never leave hers.

The white walls and the white clothes and the white room and the small white bed and the small white desk and the small white chair that's being occupied by someone, by _her_, seem to taunt him. Everything taunts him nowadays.

His voice, his posture, everything about him is nothing like the boy she used to know, the boy that they all knew back before he snapped completely. Not a bit. He snapped like a toothpick, easily, without even trying.

Everything about this new him had scared her at first, he could tell by the way she looked at him, her posture, how she wouldn't say anything for a very long time, so they just sat in pure and utter silence, neither of them daring to say a word. But then he saw that she grew used to it. _Used_ to it. He scared her when she first visited him. He's scaring her.

He's scaring himself too.

Nothing is the same anymore since their once goofy, naïve and annoying big brother named Adam Charles Davenport checked into this horribly depressing place himself. And it's true. He did that.

Despite Leo's pleas, he went ahead and did it anyway, checked into the Mental Asylum/Sanitarium/whatever you want to call it, himself. Because he snapped. Broke. Shattered. There was too much emotional pressure on him, and he snapped. **_Snapped_**.

He's numb now, like the rest of them. Numb numb numb. He broke his family. First it was Leo, then Mr. Davenport, then Tasha, then Douglas, then Bree, and then finally Chase. Chase gave up trying to be strong after a month of him being in here. Adam always knew that mission leaders are supposed to be strong, and Chase is the perfect example of that.

But Adam suspects that Chase being strong is either a facade or he will break, and soon.

Bree was the worst of all. He did this to them, to her, his baby sister. He broke his siblings. Broke Chase so much Adam expects that both Bree and Chase are probably going to be joining him in this place. But he did that to them. Broke them like they were made out of glass. Glass glass glass glass glass. Glass glass glass. Glass...

No no no. He didn't do that. Didn't break them. Didn't do it. Didn't break them. Didn't break them, his _siblings_…

But you did break them. _You_ did this to them, and you alone. _You_ broke, and then they broke too. _You_ are a monster, stupid boy, for doing this to them. _You_ made them break. _You_ them broke them broke them broke them… Broke them like they were twigs. In half. Completely. _You_ did this.

He broke them, _them_, his once happy _family_…

"Why are you here, Bree?" He asks again, staring directly into her brown eyes. He can see the salty tears begin to swell up in her scarred brown eyes, and he blinks twice before reverting his gaze to the once brightly white colored wall. Sure, there is still a little paint on the wall, but Adam really wishes that they'd repaint the wall. Paint the wall red, maybe. That would be nicer than just stupid chipping white paint.

No.

Red is the color of blood.

And seeing it pool out of a million holes in your body is not pretty.

Red is the color of blood.

Red red red blood blood blood.

Blood blood red red.

He turns his gaze back to his baby sister and smiles a bit at her. He actually _smiles. _But it's not a happy smile, or his signature goofy smile. It's not a sane smile.

It's the smile that says _you don't know me anymore, you have no idea what I've become, what I did to push myself to the breaking point. You weren't there with me when it happened. When I just completely broke down. You did not see me break down in that moment, didn't see the aftermath of when I lost all hope on breathing one more second. You don't know me anymore, you don't know what it was like to hit the breaking point, and you never will._

The breaking point.

And he knows he's broken, too. No amount of denial could save that truth from them, his family, or himself. And him most of all, because he's already gone, already scarred. He's lost, gone.

…It's sad to be a broken person in a messed up world, isn't it?

He hit his breaking point, hard, and now he's drowning…

(Which he finds to be extremely ironic; that statement about him drowning. Adam was once able breathe underwater for prolonged amounts of time, the pressure of the water never bothering him a bit. Mr. Davenport had removed his chip from the back of his neck with the chip extractor as soon as he visited him, two days after he found out that Adam was in the God-forsaken Sanatarium. He was missing for two long days, in a daze, wandering all alone. He had seen five people die in front of his own two brown eyes. He snapped a few days after the shock wore off, and he checked into this place himself.)

Adam has been in this Sanatarium for a little over three months now. Three long months. Of being empty, being scarred, being numb.

Numb.

(Well, duh, everyone knows that seeing a person die is scary and life changing and scarring, but seeing five completely innocent people die by a hailstorm of bullets by a terrorist organization right in front of you, while you are all alone without anyone to contact and being so shocked that you can't even scream, is absolutely mind numbing. And he knew those five people, every single one of them.)

(They all died that night, died right in front of him, in the same exact way. He just stood there, numb and paralyzed with fear. And what's worse is that he _knew_ those five people. They were his friends, people he hung out with in school. Those five names, those _people_, were Daniel Richardson, Oliver Williamson, Greg Harvey, Zachary Smith, and Jayden Potter.)

All dead, all gone within a few seconds. He saw five people die in front of him, in the same twisted way.

(Also, Mr. Davenport put up a couple of bionic signal interrupters to make sure that he didn't try to escape or hurt anyone. He hasn't been able to use his bionic abilities for a few months now. Three months, to be exact. But to be honest with himself, he is kind of glad he's not bionic anymore. He might hurt people. And he doesn't want that to happen. He can't hurt anyone else. Not physically, anyway.)

(Although, the sad- and the **scary**- part is that he can **_still_** hurt people in many different ways even without trying. He can hurt Bree and Chase, both mentally and emotionally. He can break them mentally, and he can also break Bree and Chase emotionally too. They are his siblings, after all. He knows what makes them tick, just like they know how to make him tick. But he's broken into a million five hundred and ten microscopic pieces. They don't want to break him even more. But for some strange reason, he wants to make _them_ snap, his baby siblings. He _wants_ to make them snap, like him. Just like they can see him now, see the aftermath of his break down. With a small flare of surprise, Adam realizes that he can make Bree and Chase snap in an instant, if they haven't already…)

(He doesn't have enough mental energy to even think about anything anymore. He can't remember what happiness feels likes. He can't feel any other pleasant emotion anymore. He is just completely numb now. Completely. He can't feel anything, any shred of a happy emotion, save for anger and pain and that constant feeling of being purely numb.)

_This,_ he realizes with a jolt of surprise, _is what hitting your breaking point is.__The constant feeling of being numb, powerless and helpless to do anything, really. He is just mentally numb._

Numb.

"I- I… I'm here to see you again, Adam." She says gently, so softly that he can barely hear, but loud enough that her voice brings him out of his thoughts. She blinks sadly and then she folds her hands in her lap. She isn't wearing any jewelry or makeup, but Adam thinks she looks pretty. Her hair is pretty too. Combed. It smells nice, like vanilla. She looks very pretty today. She looks nice. "I… I wanted to see you again."

She wanted to see him. Again.

_Again_.

He laughs internally, although his face remains hard and clear of any emotion on the outside, and his face is angry and haunted as well. He just swallows and frowns a bit as well.

See _him_? _SEE HIM?!_ No. No. Doesn't she get it? Doesn't his baby sister see what is going on? What is happening to him? Does she even see what he wants more than anything right now, what _he_ wants? No, she doesn't get it at all. No no no. There is absolutely _NOTHING_ left to see of him! There isn't anything to try and save, because it's all broken, all gone. There is NOTHING left of Adam Charles Davenport! And there **_NEVER_** will be! Not after what he saw happen. Not after the incident with his friends, how he reached the breaking point…

(He doesn't think he'll leave this depressing place anytime soon. Oh no. No. Never. God knows that he won't leave this place in a few days. And no, he won't be leaving in a week, not a few weeks, not in a few months, not even in a few years. Heck, he might as well just stay here for the rest of his life and rot in his small white room, sitting on small white bed, wearing extra extra large adult sized clean white cotton clothes, sitting on his small white bed and running his fingers through the material of his shirt.)

Don't they know that he just wants to be left alone? Just **LEAVE HIM ALONE!**

Leave him alone…

No no no please just leave him alone in his small white room on his small white bed dressed in his white cotton clothes left alone with his blackened thoughts, the only thing that scares him right now. His thoughts.

He wants to be left alone, how hard is that to understand?

"You are here to see me." He repeats slowly, blinking as if going into a dream or coming out a dream. He wishes this were a dream sometimes. But that's all they are. Dreams. Illusions. Pain. Memories. Shattered dreams. Bad bad bad, shattered dreams. And the boy with the broken soul is _real, he _is_ real._

He wants to open his eyes and wake up from this nightmare, but it's not a nightmare, not just a dream. It's reality. **_His_** reality.

He is actually inside this small white room on his small white bed wearing his plain patternless crisp white clothes. Staring at the wall.

Talking to her, her, her.

Bree.

Bree, his _sister_.

He shakes his head, and his thoughts clear, and his nose twitches a bit as he says the words that hurt both of them:

"_You_," he sees with icy cold, numbing awareness that he points to his sister with his tan thumb that looks way too pale in his small white room that is bare of anything save for a bed, a desk, a bathroom, a light, a chair that's being occupied by her, her, _her_, and him sitting on his small white bed, staring at her intensely with broken brown eyes, and a boy that is way past trying to be saved because he's given up on life, on trying to breathe even one more second, "are here," his lips twist up into a sadistic smile that hurts his face a bit, his dark brown eyes gleaming with mentally insane sickness and pure pain- pure _agony_- at the same time, "to see," he jabs his thumb at his chest, "_me_."

His voice breaks like glass, **_(glass, glass, darling,)_** obviously there for Bree to hear, and he internally cringes at how weak he must sound to her right now, how pathetic.

But he had hit his breaking point at a rapid pace, faster than he ever expected, so he knows that he shouldn't care about how scarred he sounds right now. Why should he? He's just a husk of a man, a shell of a broken person. He's an example of what is left after a person when he or she breaks down with tears running down his or her face.

He blinks slowly, lazily. Oh, dear. He's never getting out of this place, is he?

"Yes, I'm here to see you, Adam." She says calmly, too calmly, too calmly for a person whose brother is locked up in this crazy nuthouse.

He laughs bitterly on the inside. How can she be so calm, keep her cool, at a time like this? It makes no sense, and he wants to ask _why__why why_ she isn't breaking down. _Why why why_ does the Earth goes round and _why why why_ is the Sun is hot and _why why why_ she's here to visit him and he can tell that she wants to know _why why why_ he's gone off the handle and he wants to know _why why why_ does he deserve to live- he just wants to _die, die, die_- but Adam decided a long time ago to stop asking questions, which seems a bit hypocritical at the moment. Because he'll never get answers. He never did. Never does. Never will.

He has the sudden urge to throw a pillow at her like he used to do before he admitted himself into this crazy place, into the _Sanatarium_, but he doesn't dare even lift a single finger, move a fraction of an inch. He doesn't move, but instead he just stares at the wall and doesn't think about hitting Bree with his pillow and hitting her with the pillow in the face. He thinks that him throwing a pillow at her, his baby sister, could be taken the wrong way, and Bree might freak out or something, and then he'd be locked up even worse than he is now. He doesn't want that to happen, so he goes with the alternative answer, the backup choice.

So instead he answers in a cold voice that makes ice prick at his heart and encase it like a cold fist: "I know you are Bree," and falls silent again, unable to think of anything to say. There's so much to say, but he doesn't know how to say it. The words burn in his throat and suffocate him, but he can't open his mouth. It's like his mouth is glued shut, cutting of the words that are on the very tip of his tongue, words that he desperately wants to say, but he doesn't know how to say the words.

So instead he stays silent.

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><p>To busy himself and to try and avoid his sister's hurt brown eyes, he plays with his cotton shirt at the hem, running his fingers up and down continuously on the white shirt, busying himself by looking at the patternless clean cloth, still fiddling with the hem of the plain white shirt that's covering his body generously, and then staring at the white walls and the white pillow that is propping up his back and his white, in desperate need of a paint-job <em>like right now<em> walls, the white room, bare of anything. They should put something up. A poster. Heck, a piece of tape would suffice. Anything, really. Anything.

The only other thing in the room is a closed, painted white door that connects to his room, and a window with bars and bionic signal interrupters and a thick padlock on the chain-link bars as an extra safety measure.

There is also that aforementioned door. The door, the white painted door, leads to the small white tile bathroom. Just a toilet and a sink. There is not a mirror hanging on the wall, or a shower, either. So he thinks he smells pretty bad, but they let him take a shower once every other day. He took a shower this morning. It was nice. The water was hot, pleasant.

For a moment, a few minutes, four minutes, he felt okay. But then he realized what he was trying to get away from, why he admitted himself into this horribly depressing Sanatarium, and then he would become upset as he pulled on his patternless plain white clothes onto his body after he dried off completely and then he would trudge very slowly to his small white room- escorted by a guard with the key to get in and out of his room, which makes him feel like he's in prison- and sit down on his small white bed and sit there and be silent. In addition to his room, there are bionic signal interrupters everywhere. In his room, in the hallways, in the room that is called the recreation room. So he hasn't been bionic, hasn't even thought about escaping this place. There isn't anything to do in his room except sit there or take naps.

But sometimes he has to get up to use the bathroom, like all humans do. The mirror isn't on the wall. There never was one, and there never will be. He is glad that there isn't a mirror on the wall. He is glad because he can't see himself after he hit the breaking point. He isn't sure he wants to see himself after he completely broke down, hit the breaking point.

He doesn't want to see a broken boy staring back at him in the mirror.

He's pretty sure that there isn't a mirror for a reason. If someone were to punch out the glass, they'd get hurt. They person would probably bleed and cut a vein or something. So there is no mirror.

Adam forces himself to not meet his baby sister's eyes. He will busy himself by looking at anything else, any other pattern, but there are none, not on the walls, not on his shirt or on his long white pants that were both provided to him when he first came into this really depressing Sanatarium. Anything but her.

Anything but his baby sister's hurt, tear filled brown eyes.

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><p><em>Drip, drip,<em> go her tears.

So when she speaks again, he says nothing to her. He just stares at the white wall.

* * *

><p>"Adam," she says after a moment, her voice breaking, "did you hit your-"<p>

"Hit my breaking point?" He asks in a dead voice, and when she nods, he blinks, taking a deep breath and says: "Bree, you don't understand." He whispers to her, and she frowns.

"Don't understand what?" She asks, puzzled by his words.

He stares at his baby sister directly now. "What it's like to hit your breaking point."

"No," she whispers, tears gathering in her eyes, "I don't think I would know."

"No." He scoffs, "No." He repeats, shaking his head. "Poor, poor little Bree. Of course you wouldn't know what it's like. Of course you wouldn't."

"Then help me understand, Adam." She pleads, and he sighs.

"I hit my breaking point. You will too, Bree. You will too. It's only a matter of time before you break like I did, before you end up in here, in _here_, in this crazy place. You might as well be sitting on a small white bed in plain white clothes in a small white room with four walls and a connecting room that leads to the bathroom with no mirror, in this Sanatarium, next to _me_. Because sometimes we all reach our breaking points, some faster than others. Some end up fine, some end up damaged beyond repair, and some shatter completely."

She begins crying, the tears rolling down her face and onto the floor. He doesn't get up from his small white bed to comfort her.

_Drip, drip._

She sobs, burying her tear stained face into her slightly trembling hands. He does not comfort her, does not say anything all. He just silently watches her cry, watches her break down. He grows just a bit more numb, a bit more numb than usual as he watches the tears plop onto the cement floor of his small white room, watches her shoulders heave and quake, hears the whimpers and the sobs escape her lips.

_Drip, drip._

_Drip drip,_ go her tears, her tears falling down in streams of two down her face like salty rain falling from a black sky with dark clouds rolling across a bleak, scary dark sky. _Drip drip._

_Drip drip, _go her tears again and again and again,_ drip drip._

_Drip drip, drip, drip, drip drip. Drip drip. Drip. Drip drip._

She yells at him suddenly, wiping her tears away from her face. He pretends like he doesn't hear her yelling at him. He knows that she's paralyzed by grief and anger, so he pretends like he doesn't hear her yell at him.

* * *

><p><em>Drip, drip, drip.<em> Faster now, go her tears, _drip drip drip_, go her tears, go her salty warm tears as they run down her tan pretty face like a river flowing very quickly at dizzying speeds, never slowing or stopping for a minute. If anything, he thinks the tears go down her face faster than before. _Drip drip drip drip drip._

He laughs loudly, madly, _insanely_ at her when she talks about him getting better through her tears and a scared, broken voice. He laughed insanely at her because she simply _does not even begin to understand_. Oh no, Bree doesn't understand anything. She doesn't know what it's like to shatter. She doesn't understand that he will never get better. She doesn't know anything about this new him, the one that wakes up screaming from nightmares and crying and begging for God to take him to a better place. Something better than where he is right now.

_Drip, drip, drip,_ scream the tears going down her face. _Drip, drip, drip._

She stands up from her chair and says goodbye to him, and she tells him in a soft voice that she loves him and that she will be back soon before she leaves his room, shutting the door behind her. He doesn't call after her or try to open the door. The door is locked. It always is, unless you have a key to enter the room. Like she did, like Bree did.

He can almost see the tears go _drip__drip drip_ as she walks down the hall. He can hear her sobs, and they seem so impossibly loud. He can hear the faint _drip, drip drip _of her tears again.

He stares at the white wall and wonders _why why why_ does he deserve to live, he just wants to **_die_**.

_Drip, drip, drip, drip drip, drip drip drip, _go the tears down _his_ face now. _Drip drip drip drip drip drip drip, _screams his own hot and salty tears. _Drip drip,_ go his tears, so impossibly fast now that he has a headache, _drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip…_

And he cries for the first time in three months.


	2. Chapter 2

Hello there guys! I have a question. This has been on my mind for a very long time now, about a day after I posted Breaking Point.

Should I make a sequel to Breaking Point? I think people would really like it if I made one.

So what should I do? Should I make a sequel to Breaking Point? You guys can either tell me in a review or vote on the poll on my profile. Thanks! :)


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